"So, just how, may I ask, did you get ahold of my gloves?"
This was the question Roy posed to his lightly singed and wholly irritated subordinate, who was presently standing, dripping water from a dousing by a fire sprinkler onto the wooden floor of his office. Not getting an answer, he leaned forward and steepled his hands preparing for the routine 'Ed damage control' that often accompanied days such as this one.
It was, in fact, a common enough occurrence that the term 'Ed cleanup' had become somewhat of a game around the office; more often than not, a betting pool was in place to see just when the next incident would happen. Fury, in the spirit of things, had place a piece of legal paper on the wall with "It has been _ days since the last Ed cleanup" scrawled on it. Ironically, it was never Ed actually doing the cleaning, but Roy. And this time, he had had enough.
"You know, at this point it doesn't even matter. I have been getting complaints for weeks—from enlisted men to a number of my superiors—all insisting that I "deal with" your reckless behavior." He sighed and wove his fingers through his hair as Ed merely quirked a smile.
"I've been ignoring them in hopes of giving you a little slack to maybe get it out of your system, but that doesn't seem to be working, and this was the last straw." The young alchemist opened his mouth to speak, but Mustang cut him off with a packet of official looking paperwork forcibly thrust in his face.
Ed took a three second glance at what he had been given and merely emoted, "What the fuck is this shit?"
"'This shit'" Roy smirked. "Is me dealing with your behavior."
"…Sure."
"Really, it was this or a three week series of anger management courses—that you would have to pass with flying colors naturally—if you wanted to keep your current occupation as a traveling state alchemist and avoid my fate." Mustang gestured to his plethora of folders and papers and stamps and assorted other things that he had not sorted in the least for likely the past week and a half. Ed just grimaced.
"Can't you just, I dunno, sign off pretending I did it?"
"Unfortunately, my previous inaction won't allow it. It's this or the grounds councilor." The papers dropped to Ed's side as he slouched and groaned dramatically, obviously about to protest.
"Besides, at least this way, you'll be with someone you know; Hawkeye is teaching this class just for you. And," he added, "you can bring Alphonse along. I'm sure he would enjoy a little bit of relaxation after all the turmoil last night."
Mustang's gaze took in the lightly singed appearance of Edward, feeling just a little bit of pity, as Ed hadn't even been able to change out of his soaked clothing after the incident… maybe just a little pity. Maybe.
"But, Mustang, really? Art class? Really? How on earth is that supposed to 'help', I don't have time to sit around painting pretty pictures with Al and Hawkeye."
Ignoring the complaint, Mustang continued. "Now, I would appreciate having my property back thank you very much." Roy held out his hand while Ed fished around his pockets with none too little irritation, slapping the tattered remains of a pair of fire alchemy gloves into the hands of their owner.
Ed grumbled under his breath, "Stupid gloves, don't even make sense anyway." His superior chuckled at that; Ed's curiosity was something to behold, however his irritation when it wasn't sated to his liking was perhaps even more so.
Edward Elric had been Bored (note the capital B). And when Edward Elric was Bored, capital B, bad things tended to happen to good buildings. Such was the case here.
"Now, if you would kindly go and assist in the repairs of the enlisted quarters you burned down last night, I'll give you the rest of the day to set up that," he pointed to the packet of papers Ed held at his side. "with Hawkeye, and get yourself a new housing assignment. The remainder of the day is yours."
As Ed began the slow trudge out of the office he commonly adopted when he felt too put upon, Mustang made one last request. "Oh, Ed?" The glare he received merely made him smirk. "Perhaps consider a change of clothes before coming back to talk to Hawkeye. We wouldn't want you to drip on the carpet any more now would we?"
Roy could practically feel the mental projection of Ed flipping him the bird as he trampled out the door, and it made him smile. If Ed still had the fire to be pissed at him, it meant he wasn't too bothered by his situation, or Mustang's veiled concern.
As much as he would have loved to dwell on the humorous misgivings of the younger alchemist, Roy found his attentions drawn in and sobered when he received a concerning call from Hughes. "I've got some bad news…" It began. It only went downhill from there. It began in reference to an on call assignment Roy had taken a few months back, a drug bust as it had turned out, where Roy had been not only unexpected for the Mafia members running the gig, but also the keystone reason for the mission's success.
Immediately recognized by his signature alchemy, Roy had, according to Maes, apparently earned himself a place in the red books of the men he brought behind bars, and some mysterious beneficiary had miraculously supplied the massive bail needed to get them back on the street.
Unfortunately, well even more so than his residency on a hit list, the bail money was traced to a military unit, one in Central command that was unauthorized to have any association with the case. This meant that not only was their release illegal, but that someone or multiple someones in Central command were involved with the Mafia and had no problem using government loopholes to help them out.
That was from where Roy's new concern stemmed. It was no secret that many of the brass above didn't like him, nor was it any less of a secret that quite a few people down the chain from him would have preferred him gone. What was new to him however, was the fact that a letter had been supplied to the inmates upon their release with the bail, and that it had been left in their cell, opened, and clearly approved if Hughes' department had done their job right.
The contents of that letter, consisted of a few updates, complaints, and requests; one of which was the elimination of a one Roy Mustang. The detailing was vague enough to keep the authorities from being able to really do anything preventative, but detailed enough to let him know that his alchemy would be rendered useless by dousing him in unspecified amounts of water, and that some form of grenade would keep him from being able to fall back on hand to hand combat.
Maes could really only offer the friendly advice of carrying a gun, not going anywhere alone, avoiding places he could easily be gotten wet, blah blah. He expressed great concern over the fact that, should the military accomplices be directly involved in trying to assassinate him, Roy would not be truly safe, even at work in his office.
While he had always known his death was a possibility, and while he had prepared for it, Roy was still a bit shaken to realize just how unsafe he was, even on his own turf.
Now Roy, as the natural go-getter he was known to be, hated paperwork. More importantly, he hated letting other people do things for him, that, in all rights, he felt he should be doing. Which meant he was left with his archenemy - you guessed it- paperwork. In this particular instance, that 'paperwork' was an artistically layered pinwheel of lines that was to be filled out with the yellow crayon currently in a death grip in Roy's hand.
Roy regretted leaving his gloves in his office, considering retrieving him while he glared metaphorical flames through Edward Elric's very smug face. Edward was the cause of Mustang's glare-per usual- and Mustang was the cause of Ed's smugness- also per usual- because, let's face it, the scene he managed to orchestrate was just too funny.
That scene being; Ed is smug as hell because fuck yeah; Mustang in a kiddie chair being irritated by crayons, Alphonse—pointedly ignoring the tension between his brother and Mustang—sitting cross-legged on the floor attempting to color a sunset using too small of a paintbrush with too large of hands, Riza Hawkeye, sitting in an actual chair behind a desk with her gun placed on it as a warning while reading a book, and the ticking of the clock on the wall clearly driving Roy closer and closer to the edge of art class insanity.
It had begun the day previous, when Ed returned to negotiate the terms of his sentencing with Hawkeye. He had initially entertained the fantasy of simply running off and avoiding his problems and Mustang's orders like he usually did, however, given the thin ice he was already on, he decided against it. Instead he resolved that if he was going down, he was dragging Mustang with him. Or in this case, to art class.
"So, you're telling me that you feel that 'part of your 'emotional instability' that got you into this mess is caused in part by lack of a 'basic yet necessary' friendly interaction with your superior?" Hawkeye merely quirked an eyebrow at Edward, his falsified statement obvious to both of them, however written neatly and logically on his 'proof of remediating action' paper. In the eyes of Roy's superiors, it would make sense; a fatherless child acting out in reaction to being denied a compassionate if not parental relationship with the man supposedly responsible for both his action and well-being while in the military.
Of course to Hawkeye it was obvious that Edward had some ulterior motive, however she also noted that the Colonel had been stressing himself to the breaking point after that phone call from Hughes. In her mind Edward's request to be accompanied by Mustang might serve as an emotional respite for them both.
That was not the case. That was not the case at all. She should have realized sooner that Ed's goal was only antagonizing Mustang further when he had come bursting into the reserved childcare room that had been designated for his art instruction. Of course the presence of such a room at all was partly the fault of Maes Hughes pushing for the ability to bring his daughter to work without ramifications, but the result was the same. Edward had immediately escorted all normal sized chairs from the room save two, and apparently alchemized them into a locked closet down the hall.
As Mustang had approached the door with not nearly enough caution as the situation warranted, but certainly the irritation, Ed had booked it for the one normal chair that Hawkeye herself had not claimed. In the process, he tipped over the small jar of brightly colored, layered sand on the desk… all over and into his automail.
Ed did claim the chair, but groaned in frustration as the sand wormed its way into the workings of his arm.
"I should have remembered by now to never trust sand."
"Just because you've caused copious amounts of trouble in the desert, Edward, does not mean that sand is out to get you." Mustang's initial amusement at watching Edward's discomfort was quickly squelched by the furniture in the room. Or rather, the lack thereof. Or, even more rather, the presence of only kiddie chairs, the kind that squeak ominously anytime someone over three feet tall sits in them. That kind.
"Edward…"
"Yes?" He bats his eyelashes, but the shark-like grin kills any mock innocence he might have had.
"Would you kindly get in the chair appropriate to your height?"
"… … … I may be short, but you're still beneath me." At least his comebacks had matured in the years Roy had known him. Unfortunately, his brash and sometimes frankly irritating demeanor had not. What a shame.
It was that series of events which lead to the yellow crayon being strangled to death as Mustang tried to wish his alchemy to life through sheer willpower. It wasn't working. Ed thought he looked constipated.
Mustang was broken from his mental hamster wheel of idleness-irritation when Ed brought up the frenzied tapping of his foot.
"Yeesh, what's got your panties in a bunch? Get dumped by another date?"
"No, as it happens I am… currently single. That's beside the point anyhow." Clearly a sore spot despite his protest, Ed chose to ignore his first statement.
"Just what then, is the point?" Ed was genuinely getting curious and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "Seriously, you haven't looked this much like a new pocket watch since General Hakuro came for inspection last month."
"It's just something Maes said ab- wait, a new pocket watch?"
"Yeah, cause you know, you're really… wound up?" He punctuated the pun with the real life version of ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ plus finger guns and a prompt of 'eh?'.
A groan. Alphonse chiding, 'brother…' but not really meaning it. A sigh from Hawkeye. All signs of a successful pun.
"No really, what's up?"
Mustang explained the phone call from Hughes and how he had been on edge ever since, explaining his (secondary) reasoning for regretting leaving his gloves in the office. Ed almost felt worried, Almost.
"So, you actually think someone's gonna get close enough to you to get you sufficiently wet, provided you don't torch them or get the lieutenant to shoot them first, and then assassinate you with grenades? You really don't give yourself—or your team for that matter—enough credit Mustang."
Edward smirked and added in; "Even if you do get turned into a soggy candlestick, I'll save ya."
Meant as an insult, Ed realized too late what he said.
"Why Edward, does this mean you do care about me?" The mock surprise practically oozed sarcasm.
"Oh, shut up sparky."
At that moment the lights went out with a fairly loud 'snap'. Now, given the lack of storm or obvious reasoning for a blackout, the missing lights were a bit concerning. Even more so considering Central command had its own generator and power grid, and the only time the lights snapped like that was when the emergency switch was thrown. Naturally, this implied that there was, in fact, an emergency, and Mustang quickly tensed, expecting some sort of commotion from outside indicating a reason for the lack of lighting.
The longer nothing happened, the more concerned he got, and he ended up standing to walk to the door at the same time as Edward.
"Stay" Roy hissed under his breath, trying to avoid making noise. Luckily Edward got the memo and lowered his volume as well.
"I'm not a fucking dog, Mustang…"
"I know, just… shh."
The lack of response from Hawkeye to any of the strange happenings should have been a tip off, however Roy's paranoia and inability to see all that well in the semi-darkness prevented him from noticing. Instead he slowly crept to the door and opened it with a heavy creak making him wince. He was trying not to be noticed dammit! Was the door heavier than normal? He didn't have much time to dwell on that thought as a heavy clanging rang out in the hallway…
And a bucket of water that had been set atop the cracked open door came crashing down on Roy's head—leaving him drenched—and then rolled along the floor. Immediately Roy froze, the terrible prophecy he had created for himself coming true.
He was being murdered, he was soaked, it was dark, his gloves were gone, he was going to die, oh god he was going to die, Ed, Al and Hawkeye were all too close, they could be caught in whatever blast there was, he failed, oh god… And then the first projectile came at him and he flinched, squeezing his eyes shut in preparation for the pain…
And… all he got was…
A squeak.
A very loud squeak, but a squeak nonetheless. Roy cracked his eyes open and looked down, only to see the offending object that had been launched at him was a rubber duck. With a mustache and monocle. Okay.
More immediately followed, accompanied with shouts of glee from his assailants, "Aim for the two o'clock, the subject is open!" "Engage special attack; subject has raised defenses!" The volley of ducks increased. "Subject does not appear phased! Increase attack!" One landed on his head. Eventually the ducks all lay either on Roy in some manner, or at his feet in a puddle.
Jean Havoc and Maes Hughes step out of the shadows as the lights come back on, with Edward practically cackling in the background. Hawkeye even bent down to sweep up another duck and place it on her superior's shoulder, his best friend snapping as many candid photos as he could get. Roy grouched unintelligibly at Maes about childishness and 'why do you even have so many rubber ducks anyway?' not expecting anyone to hear him, however the younger alchemist behind him spoke every language of mumble known to man and probably understood him perfectly.
Now Edward, he just kept laughing so hard he was almost crying. He had to take back his previous statement, Mustang in a kiddie chair wasn't the funniest thing to happen that day. Instead Ed laughs his ass off because, goddamn, sopping wet Roy Mustang standing in a hallway, broken crayon in hand with a rubber duck on his head is most surely just the funniest thing in the world.
And there you have it, I needed to write something light-hearted and this was perfect for that. Hope you liked it, and, as always, feel free to request other scenarios.